I
Shall Hear The Tinkle Of The Belled Sheep On The Hillsides; Inhale
The Fragrance Of The Flowering Vine That Climbed In At My Cottage
Window; Relive In Memory The Days When Love And I First Walked
Together, Hand In Hand.
Dear days of happy idleness; of dreaming
dreams and seeing visions; of morning walks over the hills; of
'bread-
And-cheese and kisses' at noon, with kind Mrs. Bobby hovering
like a plump guardian angel over the simple feast; afternoon tea
under the friendly shades of the yew-tree, and parting at the
wicket-gate. I can see him pass the clock-tower, the little
greengrocer shop, the old stocks, the green pump; then he is at the
turn of the road where the stone wall and the hawthorn hedge will
presently hide him from my view. I fly up to my window, push back
the vines, catch his last wave of the hand. I would call him back,
if I dared; but it would be no easier to let him go the second time,
and there is always to-morrow. Thank God for to-morrow! And if
there should be no to-morrow? Then thank God for to-day! And so
good-bye again, dear Belvern! It was in the lap of your lovely
hills that Penelope first knew das irdische Gluck; that she first
loved, first lived; forgot how to be artist, in remembering how to
be woman.
End of Penelope's English Experiences by Kate Douglas Wiggin
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